


The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20774045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Edward is happy when his boss, director of the international property development company Terrebus, finally checks into rehab. He's even happier when he meets the rehab charge nurse, Thomas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Includes some gender changes. 
> 
> Mentions of false accusations of sexual assault, some internalized homophobia.

New Passages looks exactly the way Edward would have expected, if he'd thought much about how a rehabilitation centre might appear. 

Several miles into the country outside Greenhithe, it's quiet, save for the occasional twittering of birds and the vague sounds of traffic from the main road, far enough away it sounds more like ocean waves. The picture of serenity. But for the shadow of bars behind the plate glass windows, Edward could almost mistake it for the stately home it once was. 

He presses the doorbell, and a plummy female voice comes over the intercom. “Good morning, sir.” He looks up to see a CCTV camera swivelled in his direction. “Can I help?” 

“I'm here to see a patient. Francis Crozier?” 

There's an extended pause. “Come in, please, sir.” The door buzzes. 

The reception desk sits in the middle of what Edward assumes was once the house's foyer. The floor, probably wood at one point, has been replaced with institutional linoleum, although the walls are still panelled, hung with heavy oil portraits of men and women who presumably lived here in centuries past. Edward wonders, briefly, how they would feel about what's become of their house.

“Hello, sir.” The woman behind the desk smiles at him. She's older, in late middle age. The photo ID tag around her neck says her name is Jane Franklin. “I'm sorry to tell you Mr. Crozier is not yet at a stage where he can receive guests.” 

“Really?” Edward came here from London to update Francis about work. Before he left, Francis was worried about one project in particular, a shopping plaza in northern Canada. Edward wants to let him know that, while it's still a bear of a job, it hasn't caused them any significant issues recently. “He's been here two weeks. Could I see him just for a moment? I've got good news,” he adds, in case that helps change her mind.

It doesn't, but she picks up a phone. “Why don't you have a seat in the welcoming room?” She points. “I'll have the head nurse come in and speak with you shortly.”

Edward sighs inwardly. He doesn't have time to plead his case to some Nurse Ratched, but he forces a smile. “Thank you,” he says, obediently, and goes into the “welcoming room.” 

It's sunny, with a neatly matched collection of dark leather sofas and armchairs. The floor is the same linoleum, but it's overlaid with plush rugs. A framed sign on the wall assures everyone New Passages is “The first step on the journey of a lifetime.” He hopes Francis' journey is a successful one. 

Edward takes out his phone, scrolling through the emails that have piled in since he last looked at it on the train. He thumbs a quick reply to Irving about more personnel issues with Cora Hickey—they should just fire her already, but Edward's hesitant to do it while Francis is here—and another to Harry Goodsir about his initiative for healthier meal offerings in the office canteen. As he skims through a note from Jen Fairholme, currently ten thousand miles to the south-east scaring up new business in Australia, a pair of sensible white and blue trainers appear in his line of sight. 

“Hello, Sister.” Edward's not sure whether they still call head nurses that. He hasn't been in a hospital since his father died nearly twenty years ago, but it seems like a safe, respectful bet. Until he looks up. 

“Not quite.” The man in front of him smiles. “But I am the charge nurse. You asked to see Francis?”

He's a sexy nurse. Extremely so. Incredible blue eyes, a rosy flush to his cheeks, a strand of black hair falling adorably over his forehead. Two lapel pins are stuck to the breakaway lanyard around his neck, one in the shape of a yellow smiling face and the other a rainbow flag. The picture ID shows his name is Thomas Jopson. 

“Yes.” Edward gives himself a mental shake of the head. He's far too old to be distracted by a handsome man. Even if that handsome man sits on the sofa beside him, so close Edward can feel the warmth of his body. 

“Are you a member of his family?”

“No.” Although with all the hours they spend together, it sometimes feels like it. “We work at the same company. He left me in charge while he's in here, and I want to get him up to date with what's going on.” 

“He's doing very well,” Thomas Jopson says. “But he's not ready to see anybody just yet.” 

“I really only need a couple of minutes...”

“I'm sorry.” His voice and eyes harden, just a little. Not quite Nurse Ratched vibes, but Edward feels like he could get there, if pressed. “I can't let you disturb him.” 

“I...”

“I could pass him a message, if you like, but he can't see you today.” 

Edward's not getting anywhere with this. He surrenders. “Could you tell him the Tuunbaq project is going well, then? Please?” 

“Of course. And your name is?” 

“Edward Little.” 

“Edward,” Thomas repeats. His expression eases a bit. “I'll tell him you were here.”

“How long will it be until he can have visitors?” 

“It's hard to say. Everyone's recovery is different.” A brief hesitation. “Do we have your contact details, Edward?” Edward is imagining the slight hitch in Thomas' voice. He has to be. 

“I can give them to you,” he offers, meeting Thomas' eye. Thomas swallows and, for a moment, Edward's sure he's not imagining anything. Then the moment evaporates, gone as quickly as it appeared. 

“Leave them at the front desk, please,” Thomas says, briskly. “Someone will contact you as soon as Francis is ready. I'm sorry you had a wasted trip.”

“It's fine.” It is, Edward supposes. He can write emails here as well as he can at the office, and the train trip was a change of scenery. Thomas is a change of scenery, too. 

Thomas stands and leaves. Edward watches him go, his eyes lingering on Thomas' slender body in his grey uniform. _Been single too long_, he thinks, although the man is objectively gorgeous. 

Edward answers Fairholme's email, then two more. He leaves his name and number with Jane at the desk, and orders an Uber to take him back to Greenhithe station. As he waits for it, he wanders around to the side of the house. Discreet fences surround the property, but Edward can look through to see flowering rosebushes and a sandy zen garden. Thomas is there, too, sitting on a bench with a woman in a pink dressing gown. She's crying. Even from a distance, Edward can see a look of complete, caring compassion on the man's face.

Edward's phone buzzes. _At least Francis is in good hands_, he thinks, and he heads towards the waiting car. 

***

“Indigenous land rights.” The phrase strikes pure, unadulterated horror into Edward's heart. 

“Where the fuck did this come from?” he demands. The language is unprofessional, but Hélène Le Vesconte and John Irving don't complain. “I thought we secured the land for the Tuunbaq project years ago.”

“It appears there might be a few, ah, irregularities with the process,” Hélène says. 

“Irregularities?” Edward's phone rings. He ignores it. “This could put an end to the entire project.” This could put an end to the entire _company_, if it goes truly wrong. Edward can't be known as "the man who sunk Terrebus." He'll never live it down.

The phone rings again. This time, Edward glances down, and sees a call from New Passages. “Just a minute,” he snaps at Hélène and John, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Edward? Hi. It's Tom Jopson, from New Passages.” Edward would like to say he hasn't thought about the man in the two weeks since he tried to visit Francis, but that would be a lie. There are plenty of hot guys in London. Edward sees them every day, but there's something different about Tom. Something he can't put his finger on. Something he hasn't forgotten. “Francis is ready to see visitors, if you'd like to schedule an appointment.” 

“Great. That's great. Thanks for letting me know.” Now, there's no excuse for Edward to keep Francis in the dark about this disaster. “I'll be down soon to speak with him.”

“I'm sure he'll be happy to hear it.” There's a pause, which stretches awkwardly. “All right, then,” Tom says, finally. “Take care, Edward.”

Edward should say more. He wants to say more, but his mind is blank. “Good-bye,” he says, his heart sinking as he ends the call. Edward swears again, this time internally. He can't talk to guys, he can't lead a company, and, he notices as he returns his phone to his pocket, his socks are slightly different shades of black. He's completely hopeless.

“We have to tell Francis,” John says, meaning, obviously, “You have to tell Francis.” 

“I know,” Edward says. “I will.”

He doesn't. 

When he arrives at New Passages the next afternoon, Jane lets him in with a smile. “Edward Little, for Francis Crozier, is that right?” Edward nods, too anxious to be astounded by her memory. “I'll have someone come to get you.”

He feels like a boy again, having to admit to his father that he's failed an exam, or dented the car, or potentially scuppered a deal worth tens of millions of pounds. This isn't his fault. Whatever happened with the land rights had nothing to do with him, but Edward is supposed to be in charge, and, as Francis started saying after he attended a leadership conference in America, “the buck stops here.” This buck is firmly perched atop Edward's chest, crushing him beneath its weight.

“Could you,” Edward says, before he can think twice about it. “Could you ask Thomas Jopson if he's free? Please?” If someone's going to lead Edward to his doom, it may as well be the most gorgeous man he's ever met. 

If Jane finds anything suspicious about the request, she doesn't let on. “I'll see if he's available,” she says, and picks up her phone. 

“Edward!” Somehow, Thomas—Tom, he'd called himself, and Edward supposes he can, too—looks even better than the last time they met. A layer of stubble shades his jawline and does strange things to Edward's insides. “Francis is so looking forward to seeing you.” 

Not for long, he won't be. “He's doing okay?” Tom heads down a hallway. Edward follows, through a large room that must have been a ballroom at one point and is now full of canteen-style tables. A few are occupied by what Edward assumes are patients, people dressed casually and playing cards or board games. 

“He's doing very well. You should be proud of him.” Tom stops, turning to face Edward. “Recovery is not an easy thing.”

“I know.” Edward doesn't. He can't even imagine. 

“It's not something that's over in a month or two. It's a lifelong process.” Edward nods. “Francis will need everyone's support when he goes home.” 

“He'll have it. Unquestionably.” It's true. There are five of them—Le Vesconte, Irving, Fairholme, Fitzjames who directs their Asian satellite office out of Beijing, and Edward himself—who know where Francis really is. The rest of the staff have been told he's recovering from a serious bout of pneumonia, although Edward suspects more than a few rumours are running around. 

“I'm very happy to hear that.” Tom smiles, and it's such a wondrous thing, Edward almost forgets why he's here. “Francis is in the conservatory,” Tom says, reminding him. They go out through a door with a luminous green Exit sign overhead and a set of extremely severe-looking locks down one side. 

“Francis,” Tom calls, as they pass into a room with large windows, wicker furniture, and an abundance of potted trees. “I've brought you a visitor.” 

“Edward, my boy!” Francis stands. “So glad you could make it.” 

He's lost weight. Quite a lot, from the looks of it. Despite that, he seems healthier than Edward has ever seen him. He's wearing a navy blue jumper and jeans, sitting on one of the wicker chairs with a book on his knee. Water burbles into a little pond beside him, where a few goldfish splash. 

“I'll leave you to it,” Tom says, to Edward's immediate, and he knows ridiculous, disappointment. “You haven't got too long. Sophia will be here to get you for music therapy at three, Francis.” 

“How could I forget?” Francis smiles. An actual smile, it seems, not a sardonic or ironic one, the only kinds Edward's ever known from him. “You'll be at the recital tomorrow, Tom?” 

“Oh, I wish I could be,” Tom says. “I'm off tomorrow, then I'm on nights. You'll give me a private performance later though, yeah?” 

“For you, anything,” Francis says, in a tone that makes Edward frown without meaning to. Tom laughs and disappears through the fortified door. When he's gone, Francis says, “That man is a goddamn angel.” He certainly looks like one. “Best nurse I've ever had. I'm alive because of him.” He, hard-as-nails Francis Crozier, actually appears a little misty eyed.

Edward sits on a wicker chair. “We're glad. That you are. Alive, I mean.” 

“I need to get him something when I leave. They aren't supposed to accept gifts, but there must be some way around that.” Francis looks thoughtfully at a fern, then brings his gaze up to meet Edward's. “How's everything at the office?”

Edward can't say it. Francis looks so well, and so happy. After all the poor man's been through—and he's been through a great deal more than they know, Edward's sure of that—he doesn't deserve to have that happiness ruined so soon. Not while his recovery is still so precarious. _When he gets out_, Edward thinks. _Maybe it will all be sorted out by then, anyway._ Maybe.

So, Edward lies. Rather, he tells selective truths. “Everything's fine. Fairholme's working on a proposition for a block of flats in Woolloomoolloo.” 

“We need expansion in that area.” 

“Fitzjames has some new projects on the go. Didn't want to tell me much about them, though. Said you'd get the report directly when you're better.” Francis rolls his eyes. Edward tries to think of something else to say, but the words “Tuunbaq” and “land rights” occupy his brain in bright, flashing lights. “Harriet Peglar in IT is getting married this weekend. We had a little do for her last Friday,” Edward says, a desperate reach. 

“Is it that woman she brought to the golf tournament? Older? Joanna something? Owns a bookshop?” 

“I assume so.” Edward hadn't asked, just made a token appearance at the celebration. He barely knows Harriet Peglar. He was, in fact, rather embarrassed to realize, very belatedly, that she and Charlotte Des Voeux in accounts are two different people. 

“Good for them. What about you?”

“Me?”

“How are you doing? Bearing up all right?”

Edward focuses on the goldfish. “Yes. Of course.” 

“Good. That's good.” Francis leans forward and claps Edward on the thigh. “I knew you could handle it.” 

Edward's not handling anything. He doesn't say that.

After half an hour of small talk, avoiding the elephant in the room only Edward knows is there, a blonde woman comes in carrying a guitar case. Francis introduces her as Sophia Cracroft, and, from the moment she enters the conservatory, his eyes are glued to her face. 

“It's such a beautiful day, I'm taking everyone outside for music therapy,” Sophia says. “Do you mind finding your way back out on your own, Edward?”

“No. That's fine.” 

“Keep me in the loop,” Francis says. “I'll be back at work soon. I don't want to feel like I'm completely lost when I get there.”

“Right, sure.” Francis is already gone, following Sophia out towards the garden. 

Edward goes back the way he came. Stepping into the dining room, he's assaulted by a deafening crash and a string of obscenities. Edward looks over. Atop an overturned table, Thomas and a woman in a white coat grapple with a large man.

He shouldn't stare, but Edward can't help himself. As he watches, the man flails, grabs the doctor by the front of her coat, then releases her and lands a punch squarely on Thomas' face. Edward stiffens. His first instinct is to rush over to help, but he resists. Sure enough, an instant later two security guards in red jackets appear and drag the man, still fighting, out of the room. Thomas flips back his disarranged hair, and says something inaudible to the doctor. Turning, his gaze passes over Edward. He blinks and, for a moment, Edward thinks Tom is going to approach him. He doesn't. He puts his hand against his cheek, and leaves through another door. 

Edward's mind refuses to let go of the incident, even as he waits for his Uber, takes it into Greenhithe, disembarks at the station. It's been a long time since he's found anyone as attractive as he finds Tom. _He could be straight_, Edward tells himself. _That rainbow pin might not mean anything. Or if it does, he probably has a partner._ There's no way someone as handsome and, from what Francis says, as wonderful as Tom could be single. 

_But it doesn't have to be like that. Not a sex thing. What if I just ask after him? See how he's doing?_ There's nothing wrong with that, surely. Tom took quite a punch, and he knows Edward saw it happen. It's only polite to make sure he's all right. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Edward gets another Uber back to New Passages. When he arrives, he sees Tom in the car park, heading towards a blue Prius. Edward decides to take that as a sign. He squares his shoulders, breathes deeply, and goes over. 

“Tom!”

Tom looks up. There's already a red mark on his face. From Edward's experience, it's going to turn into a nasty bruise. Edward clenches his teeth and tries not to picture what he'd like to do to the guy who put it there. “Edward?”

“Do you...” Edward licks his suddenly bone-dry lips. Is it too early in the day to ask Tom for a drink? Would that be offensive? He works in a rehab facility. And what if he does have a partner after all? There must be something else he could...“Do you want to go for a cup of tea?” 

Tom smiles. “Well, you certainly know the way to a nurse's heart,” he says, and opens the door of his car. 

***

Tom has been nursing for eleven years, all of them in rehabilitation. He started off at the posh Ross Clinic in Knightsbridge, before coming to New Passages six years ago. 

“It's the best job in the world,” he says. Edward can't remember ever hearing someone say that unironically. 

“Francis says you saved his life.” 

“Francis saved his own life when he came to us. We've talked about his journey.” Edward doesn't know all of it. He does know that Francis was a high-functioning—and sometimes not so quite so high-functioning—alcoholic for at least a decade, and likely more. Shortly after the president of their principal competitor died in a terrible drunk driving accident, Francis gathered the senior managers and told them he was going into rehab. “I'm very proud of him. He's such an inspiration.” Tom sips his tea. “What do you do at the company?”

“I'm a senior manager,” Edward says. “We work mostly in international property development.” 

Tom doesn't even sound sarcastic when he replies, “That must be really rewarding.”

“I don't know about rewarding. It can be stressful." Edward remembers he's sitting across the table from a man who just got punched at work. “Are you OK?” He points to Tom's cheek. 

“Oh, I'm fine. It happens all the time. It's not personal. They're in crisis.” He smiles. “ Do you fancy some of that biscotti?”

It's been a long, long time since he went on a date this good. If it is a date. The conversation flows easily, thanks to Tom, and Edward feels like they've known one another for years. Before Edward realizes it, it's nearly half past seven, and they've been sitting in the cafe for over three hours. 

While he's talked about his younger brother—an H&M shop assistant and aspiring DJ in London—and mother—single mum living in Gravesend, Tom visits her on his days off—he hasn't mentioned any kind of partner. Edward takes the plunge. “Would you maybe like to go to dinner? Sometime? With me?” 

Tom smiles. “How about now?”


	2. Chapter 2

Edward awakes to the buzzing of a phone somewhere near his left ear. He reaches out blindly, fumbling to find it. A moment later, he remembers he always keeps his phone on the right side of the bed. A moment after that, he remembers exactly where he is. 

Tom's bedroom is spacious, with a huge bed and a painting of a wartime nurse on the wall. Edward guesses it's First World War, but he's not an expert on military uniforms. 

Despite the huge expanse of mattress available to him, Tom is curled up close, his head on Edward's shoulder and his arm over Edward's waist. Tucked in behind Tom is his cat Jacko, which raises its head and looks at Edward with the same censorious glare it gave him the night before, when Tom kicked it out of the room just before he pulled Edward onto his bed. 

The night was amazing. Better yet, Edward can remember everything about it. They didn't drink—Thomas wouldn't, which was only natural, so Edward didn't either—but he hadn't felt the need. Tom was so charming, and so funny, and so unfailingly kind, to everyone from Edward to the waiter to the lady at the next table who dropped her fork onto the floor. He even said “bless you” when someone sneezed halfway across the restaurant. Afterwards, they'd come back here and made out like teenagers, kissing for what felt like hours on Tom's sofa. 

“I don't normally...I mean, not so fast.” Tom caressed Edward's face like it was something precious. 

“I'd really like to,” Edward confessed. 

Tom's beautiful eyes gleamed. “Me, too.” 

So they did. It was a little awkward at first, Edward remembers, with some fumbling and false starts, but once they worked things out, it was heaven. Edward grins just thinking of the sight of Tom astride him, face flushed red, fingers raking through Edward's chest hair as he rode him like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted to do. 

The phone buzzes again. Trying not to disturb Tom, Edward picks it up and blinks blearily at the screen. 

It's a new text. Two in fact. The first reads: _Hi sweetheart, how's your face?_ The second, _You off today? Want me to come by and kiss it better?_ Edward frowns in confusion. The sender is marked as “Tozer.” Wrong number, maybe? 

Later, thinking back on this incident, Edward is embarrassed that it takes him nearly a full thirty seconds to realize he picked up the wrong phone. 

When he does, he drops it like it's scalding. His cheeks burn at the same time his stomach plummets. Tom stirs beside him. He doesn't open his eyes, but he makes a pleased-sounding hum and presses a kiss to Edward's chest. 

_It's fine_, Edward tells himself. Open relationships, polyamory, whatever. Plenty of people do that. Just because Tom didn't mentioned it doesn't mean he's not into it. And even if Tom used him to cheat on someone, what does it matter to Edward? This is just a one night stand, a bit of fun. It's not like he'd imagined they might meet each others families or move in together or get married or anything. Not at all. That would have been stupid. If he'd done it. Which he hadn't. 

Another buzz. He puts Tom's phone back on the bedside table and picks up his own. 

_Shit's hit the fan_, Hélène Le Vesconte writes. _Canadian media's picked up on the land rights thing. Questions about it in parliament today. CBC wants an interview._

Fuck. 

“Good morning.” 

Edward looks down, into Tom's incredible eyes. Tom shifts closer still. _It would be so easy to stay here_, Edward thinks. Neglect everything. Quit his job entirely. Move to Greenhithe and spend his days fucking the hottest and most amazing guy he's ever met. 

Who also happens to be fucking someone named Tozer. 

“I have to get to work.” Edward disengages himself from Tom. 

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” Tom sits up. As predicted, the mark on his face has bloomed into a bruise. “Do you want me to give you a lift to the station? Or I could drive you to London, if you like.”

“It's okay. You stay in bed.” Edward looks around the floor. His trousers are in a crumpled pile near the door, his shirt in a similar state on the other side of the room. He can't see his underpants anywhere. Wincing, he foregoes them. 

“Right.” The cat crawls onto Tom's knee. He runs a hand down its back. “You can give me a call anytime, yeah? Or a text. I'd really love to see you again.” 

“Yeah.” Edward would, too. But he can't. “Thanks.” He hesitates. Tom looks like he's expecting a kiss. Edward gives him a wave instead. “Bye, Tom.”

“Good-bye, Edward,” Tom says, and there's sadness in his voice. 

***

Harry Goodsir has to go to Ottawa. Edward makes this decision by the time he arrives at the office. Apart from Jen, Harry's the one with the most diplomatic experience. He needs to go there and defuse the Tuunbaq land rights situation before it gets any worse. 

Striding into the office block, Edward presses the button for the lift like he knows what he's doing. He doesn't. If Goodsir can't sort it out, he has no clue what Plan B is going to be. 

“Edward! There you are.” 

Edward allows his eyes to slide shut for just a moment, before turning and facing Cora Hickey. “Good morning, Cora.” She's an admin assistant, but nobody really seems to know what, exactly, Cora does. Edward's certainly never seen her doing anything that could resemble work. 

“Almost afternoon, really, isn't it?” She smiles in a particular way she has, like she knows every one of your secrets and is plotting how best to use them against you. “I've been hoping to run into you.” 

“I'm actually quite busy at the moment.” Edward silently urges the lift to hurry up. The counter above the door shows it's currently stopped on the seventh floor. “But if you make an appointment...” 

“I've been having trouble with John Irving.” 

The lift starts to descend. “He did mention that. I think...”

“He's mistreating Billie and I because we're lesbians.”

“If so, Cora, then...”

“Which is pretty rich, considering what a closet case he is. Everyone saw him 'correcting Tom Hartnell's swing' at the golf tournament this past summer. You know, Tom Hartnell in accounts?” 

The lift doors slide open. Thank fucking God. “Cora, I do want to talk to you about this.” A lie. “I haven't the time right now. Make an appointment, okay?” 

For a painful, horrific second, Edward thinks Cora is going to get into the lift with him. She doesn't. She does say, “Who's the lucky lady? Or guy?” 

“I'm sorry?”

“Aren't those the same clothes you we wearing yesterday, Edward?” 

The lift doors slide shut. Edward feels a pain behind his eyes. By the time he reaches his floor, it's a full-blown headache, pounding in his skull as he goes to tell Hélène and John about the plan. 

***

Silna Whitebear, the spokesperson for the indigenous tribe claiming Tuunbaq's land, is extremely articulate. Edward and his team listen to an interview she gave CBC radio in Ottawa, then watch a video clip of her speaking at a rally further north, near the Tuunbaq site. Potential site. 

“Do you think you can come to some agreement with her?” Edward asks Goodsir, over the phone. Goodsir's already at Heathrow, waiting for his flight. 

“The law isn't in our favour,” he replies. 

“That's not very encouraging.”

“I'll do my best, Edward. But the truth is, it's not our land.” 

“Whose side are you on?” 

Goodsir has the grace not to hesitate. “Ours, of course.” 

“Good. Just...” Edward's not sure what to say next. “Just don't forget it,” he comes up with, which seems both more threatening and sillier than he intended.

For the next three days, Edward waits for updates from Goodsir. He also waits, despite himself, for a message from Tom Jopson. If Tom asks him out again, Edward will turn him down. He has to. But he gets nothing. No texts, no calls. _ Let him be happy with Tozer_, Edward thinks. It's for the best. 

He has other things to worry about, anyway. Tuunbaq isn't their only project; Edward has a dozen others in various stages of development clamouring for his attention. No wonder Francis turned to drink. Edward can't blame him after this. 

He works all weekend. On Monday, he comes in early, to find John Irving sitting in his office. This doesn't seem like a good sign, but Edward plasters on a smile anyway. “Good morning.”

John looks up, tears in his eyes and blotches on his face. Edward lets his smile fade. “Everything all right, John?” 

“She says she's going to accuse me of sexual assault.” 

“Who is?”

“Cora Hickey. That'll kill me, Edward, you know it will. My career will be finished.” 

Edward shouldn't have to ask. He knows John, but also knows enough to know that doesn't necessarily mean anything. “Did you...”

“Of course not! I never touched her. She says if I don't get her a promotion and a pay rise, she'll tell everyone I assaulted her.” 

“She's blackmailing you. We'll go to the police.” 

“She says Billie Gibson will confirm her story.” 

“There's still no evidence.” 

“That doesn't help me! She says she doesn't care if the police believe her, because the public will. The media will crucify me.” John wipes at his eyes. 

Edward sighs. “Okay. It's okay, John. We can deal with this.” Somehow. 

“And there's something else.”

Heroically, Edward refrains from swearing aloud. “What is it?”

John opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He rubs his palms against his thighs, casts his eyes to the ceiling, and says, “I'm seeing Tom Hartnell.” 

“What?”

John meets his eye. “Tom Hartnell. In accounts.” 

“Just to be clear, by 'seeing' you mean...”

“Dating.” John swallows. “Sleeping with.” 

“Aren't you the one who wrote the company policy on office relationships?” A policy that boils down to, if Edward recalls correctly, “don't have them.” 

“I didn't mean for it to happen. Nobody else can know, Edward. If my family found out, they'd disown me. Not to mention the church. I need the church. It's everything to me.”

Edward runs a hand through his hair. “Right. Let's just...” _Leave the office and pretend this never happened. Pretend I've never even worked here._ “Let's just take a step back for now. Why don't you go home for the day? Try to relax. I'll see what I can do.” He has no idea where to even start. 

“Okay.” John takes a tissue from the box on Edward's desk. Edward's heart goes out to him. This is Edward's unwanted issue, but it's John's life. 

“It'll be fine, mate.” Edward tries to sound reassuring.

John doesn't look reassured. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Edward casts about for something else to say. “Tom Hartnell's a good-looking guy.” He's not sure if he means it as a compliment, congratulations, or a statement of fact. 

John smiles, tightly. “I know,” he says. “That's the problem.” 

***

Visiting hours at New Passages end at six o'clock. Edward arrives at half-past five. He's not a religious man, but, as he rings the doorbell, he prays fervently Tom isn't there.

Jane buzzes him in. When he gets inside, her tone is distinctly frosty. 

“Yes, sir? Can I help you?” 

Edward blinks. “Edward Little. I've been here before.” She says nothing. “Would I be able to speak with Francis Crozier? Please?”

There's another man there, lounging against the desk. Fairly young, well-built, bearded. A real laddish type, Edward thinks, probably with more muscles than brains. He's wearing a red coat with a radio on one shoulder and a patch reading “Security” on the other. When Edward tells Jane his name, the man straightens up. 

“Just a moment, sir,” Jane reaches for her phone. “Let me see if anyone is available to accompany you.” 

“I'll take him,” the man says.

Edward glances at him. His photo identification is clipped to his jacket, rather than hung around his neck. It reads, “Solomon Tozer.” 

“If you've got time, Sol. Francis should be in his room.” 

“Follow me, sir,” Tozer says, and Edward tries not to feel like he's about to be taken into a dark alley and stabbed. 

Rather than a dark alley, Tozer leads him up the central staircase. He stops on the first landing, beneath a large portrait of a serious-looking man in uniform, and pins Edward with a glare. “I don't want to lose my job, so I'm just going to say this: you're an arsehole. And I know you know why.” He resumes walking. 

Edward should keep his mouth shut. It doesn't matter what this guy thinks of him. Still, he feels the urge to explain. “I didn't know you were together. Tom never told me.” 

“What?” Tozer glances over his shoulder, but doesn't stop. 

“Maybe you have some sort of arrangement, which is great for you.” _But I want him all to myself._ “That's just not my thing, okay?” 

They reach the top of the stairs. “You think I'm with Tom? As in, fucking him?” The incredulity in his voice makes something very hard form in Edward's gut.

“You're not?” 

Tozer doesn't answer. Instead, he points down a hallway of closed doors. “204,” he says. “You have to be out by six.” 

“Yes. Right. Thanks.” 

Tozer walks away. If he's not actually with Tom, then... Then Edward really is an arsehole.

_So what else is new?_ He thinks and knocks on the door of room 204. 

“This is a pleasant surprise.” Francis looks up from where he sits on his bed, another book in hand. The room is small, with a single bed, a desk and chair, and a chest of drawers. There's a good view, across the gardens and to the fields beyond. You could mistake it for a hostel or small hotel, but for the very hospital-like chart pinned to a whiteboard on the wall. “A social call, Edward? Or was there something you needed from me?” 

Edward looks at Francis, sits on his chair, and tells him everything. 

“Fire Hickey,” are his first words, when Edward is finished. Francis doesn't hesitate. He doesn't even look angry about it. Before, he would have been furious. “First thing in the morning. Get her into your office, tell her to pack her things and security will see her out.” 

“What about her threats to Irving?”

“Tell her our team of solicitors will be very happy to deal with any false allegations she cares to make against any member of our staff. Make sure she knows our policy is never to settle out of court.” 

“Is it?”

“It is now.”

“And the media?” 

“If they come sniffing around, which I doubt they will, tell them Hickey was fired for good cause, which she was. Paint her as a disgruntled employee with a grudge. It won't go anywhere, Edward. I know her type. They're all balls and no cock. So to speak. Won't actually do anything.” 

Edward feels like he should be taking notes. “She says she has Billie Gibson to back her up.”

“What's Gibson like? Loyal to Hickey?” Edward doesn't know. He barely knows anything about her, beyond the fact she serves in the canteen. “Wouldn't hurt to have her in your office, too. Remind her which side her bread is buttered on. Tell her we're all too happy to sue anybody who lies about our employees. She won't be a problem. As for this thing Irving's got going on with Hartnell, everybody knew about that already.” Edward didn't. “They were more than obvious at the golf tournament. If Irving's got personal issues, direct him to Employee Wellness services and remind him we support him.” 

Edward can do that. He's not out at work, but he's not in, either. He doesn't talk about his personal life. But if Irving needs support through the coming out process, if he wants to come out, then Edward will be there. 

“Now.” Francis sighs. “Tuunbaq.” 

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I should have...”

Francis holds up a hand. “Let's wait and see what Goodsir can do. Give him a chance. I'll be out of here soon. If it's not solved, we can regroup then.” 

“Yes.” Edward feels like a weight has been lifted from him. “I don't think I'm cut out for leadership." 

The old Francis would have agreed, enthusiastically and profanely. The new Francis says, “Seems like you're doing fine so far. This stuff's just experience. You'll get there.” 

Edward blinks. Before he can think of a way to express his gratitude, before he can think of anything, the door swings open. 

“Just me.” Thomas wheels in a medical cart. “Quick check of your vitals before supper, okay, Francis?” He stops. “Mr. Little. I didn't realize you were here.” 

“Yes,” Edward says, stupidly. Francis obediently holds out an arm, around which Thomas wraps a blood pressure cuff. 

“Visiting hours will be over in five minutes.” Thomas puts his stethoscope in his ears and presses the opposite end to the inside of Francis' elbow. The room is silent. 

Edward should say something. He waits until Thomas removes his stethoscope and Francis' cuff and replaces them on the cart. “Could I speak to you for a moment? When you're finished?” 

Thomas picks up a thermometer. Francis opens his mouth. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm not off shift until seven.” 

“I...I can wait.” 

“I wouldn't expect you to.” 

Edward can see Francis' eyes moving between them, even as his lips remain firmly closed on the thermometer. After a moment, it beeps, and Tom removes it. “Fit as a fiddle,” Tom declares. “And I believe they're serving veal cutlets in tomato sauce in the dining room tonight.”

“Delicious!” Francis stands up. “You're not keeping me from that, Edward. Best of luck.” He glances at Tom again. “With everything.”

“Do you need someone to show you out, sir?” Tom asks, once Francis is gone. Edward's hopes rise, and are immediately dashed when he goes on, “I can call one of the other nurses if you do.” 

“I can manage.” 

“All right, then.” He waits. 

“Tom, I...”

“I'm sorry, sir, I am very busy.” 

“Right. Of course.” Feeling like a kicked dog, Edward goes back down the stairs. Tozer is once again hanging about the reception desk. His gaze burns into the back of Edward's neck as he leaves through the front door. 

He doesn't go far. “All balls and no cock,” was what Francis had said of Cora Hickey. _Well_, Edward thinks, _Maybe I can be a cock as well as an arsehole._ He finds a grassy spot on the edge of the car park and sits down to wait. 

It's the creepiest thing he's ever done, but for an hour, Edward sits, answering emails like a stalker with a high-pressure career. When Tom emerges, Edward leaps up and calls his name. 

Tom's wide-eyed surprise doesn't last. “Yes, Mr. Little?”

Edward's been mentally rehearsing this moment for the past hour. “Let me buy you a cup of tea.” 

“I can't drink tea this time of night.” Edward had expected many possible answers. That wasn't one.

“Oh.”

Tom looks at him. “Maybe,” he says, finally, “we could go for a walk.” 

Worcester Park is lovely. Not quite as lovely as the words, “Tozer's my friend,” coming out of Tom's mouth, as they sit on a bench near the pond. “Why on Earth would you think otherwise?” 

“Your phone.”

“What?”

“I picked it up by accident that morning. I saw some flirty texts.” 

“That's just the way he is.” Tom glances over. “His partner William's been in a coma for over a year. Drug overdose. He'll probably never wake up, but Tozer refuses to leave him.” And, just like that, Edward knows he, personally, really is the very worst person in the world. “So I support him with that, and he supports me with my mum.” 

“Your mum?” 

“She's an opioid addict. Was sober for nearly fourteen years, but she had a setback a few months ago. She's why I got into rehab nursing. I wasn't sure that was the kind of stuff you wanted to know on a first date.” 

“I want to know everything about you,” Edward says.

“Then why didn't you ask me about Tozer? Why did you just assume the worst?” 

“I don't know.” But that's not true. If this is going to go anywhere, and he really wants it to go somewhere, Edward has to be honest. “I've been hurt before. Badly.” 

“So have I,” Tom admits. He takes Edward's hand. “So maybe we should make a promise not do to that to one another.” 

“Yes.” Edward feels like crying, in a good way. 

“And maybe,” Tom goes on, “we should take things a little more slowly this time.” 

“All right.” Tentatively, he squeezes Tom's hand. Tom squeezes back, then leans over to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Come on,” he says. “I'll give you a ride to the station.” It's sensible, but it feels a little disappointing. Until Tom adds, “I'm off this weekend. Could I come up and see you in London?” 

“Okay.” That's as eloquent as he can be with Tom's hand in his.


	3. Chapter 3

When Edward arrives at work the next morning, Hélène Le Vesconte is waiting for him. 

“She's in your office.”

“Hickey?” Edward spent the commute mentally rehearsing how he's going to fire her. He's ready to do it. As ready as he'll ever be. 

“No,” Helen replies. “Fitzjames.” 

Britannia Fitzjames is the most beautiful woman Edward has ever seen in person. At least six feet tall, she has a fondness for spiky stiletto heels, long painted fingernails, and astronomically expensive clothes which, rumour has it, she has handmade by a couturier in Paris every season. Another rumour claims she once had a fling with Francis, but she's been married to a Beijing local for as long as Edward has known her. He's allegedly a former star sniper for the Chinese army. Edward met him once. He can believe it. 

“Edward,” she says, when he steels himself and opens the door. Although she is half Brazilian, born in Rio, Britannia's accent is pure English public school. If Edward was a straighter man, or a slightly gay woman, she'd be devastating. “Just what the fuck is going on with Tuunbaq?” 

“Britannia. Good morning. I didn't realize you were coming in.” 

“Why am I reading about some sort of land issue?” 

“I spoke to Francis about it yesterday.” And thank God he did. “We've got Goodsir on the ground in Canada now. Francis wants us to wait and see what comes of that.” 

Britannia scoffs. “Francis is incapacitated.” 

“He's actually doing quite well.”

“I know how to deal with these sorts of things.” She leans forward. “Did I ever tell you about the time I single-handedly negotiated a twelve million pound land settlement in western Thailand?”

“You may have.” Approximately twenty-five times. 

“Then you'll know I know what I'm talking about.” Edward is so relieved she's not launching into the story again, it barely registers when she says, “We need to bring out the big guns.” 

“I don't think we have any big guns.”

“Oh, I've got fucking _rockets_, Edward. Just leave it with me. I'm taking over this project.” 

“You're not...I mean, Francis did leave me in charge.” 

“Francis and I are co-chairs of this company.” 

“Well, yes, but...” But she tends to stay in Asia, doing her own thing. “We should speak to Francis about it.” 

Britannia stands. “Do what you feel you have to, but I've got this under control. I'm taking over Francis' office for now. I'll have Le Vesconte with me. We've always worked well together.” 

“Britannia, I...” 

“Don't worry,” Britannia declares. “I'm here now. Everything is going to be fine.” 

Edward has more to be concerned about than how, exactly, Britannia defines “fine.” Two hours later, Cora Hickey leaves, in a flurry of profanities and threats. 

“I knew this was just a fucking old boys' club. And I include you in that,” she spits at Hélène. Hélène remains unmoved.

“If you plan on making any accusations against John Irving,” Edward puts in, remembering Francis' advice, “then I can assure you...” 

Hickey laughs “Fuck Irving. I'm finishing the whole fucking lot of you.” She wrenches her arm away from the security guard and storms off. 

“She won't do anything,” Hélène says, sounding as confident as Francis was about it. 

“I hope you're right.” 

Edward's phone buzzes. He finds a message from Britannia at the top of his inbox, inviting him to a “Festive Cross-Cultural Dinner and Celebration, with special Inuit guests from Canada”, taking place at the Tate Modern in ten days' time. 

***

“So, Britannia is solving your business problems with a party?” Tom asks. He's lying in Edward's bed, propped up on one elbow, his hand stroking Edward's side. 

“Taking things slow” started off well enough. Edward met Tom at Charing Cross on Friday evening, greeting him with a casual hug as he stepped off the train. They went for supper, then to a West End show. Edward's heart soared when Tom took his hand again, and held it throughout the performance. Afterwards, as they stood outside the theatre, Tom said, “It's a bit late to get the train back to Greenhithe now. Isn't it?” 

Edward agreed. 

It's now Sunday afternoon and, with the exception of a few brief breaks, a couple of shared showers, and getting up to greet the Uber Eats delivery driver, they've spent the entire weekend in bed. 

“Britannia does things her own way,” Edward explains. “She always has. She and Francis used to hate each other. Then they might have had an affair.” Now, they're cautious friends, at least as far as Edward can tell. She was the first to congratulate Francis when he told them he was going into rehab. 

“Really?” Tom's eyebrows go up. “Francis has never been married, has he?” Edward shakes his head. “He told me he's got a crush on one of our psychologists, Sophia Cracroft. And to be honest, I think she likes him, too, but there's no way she'd ever be able to date a patient. Even a former patient is a little dicey.”

“Well, then.” Edward grabs Tom by the hips, pulling him in close yet again. It's incredible. He's nearly forty years old, and he's never been this horny, or this able to repeatedly follow through with it, over and over, for two entire days. Tom is inspiring on all levels. “I'll make sure I never end up in rehab.” 

“Probably for the best,” Tom agrees, and obligingly slots his legs between Edward's. 

When he finally has to leave, Edward drives Tom home. They sit, parked in front of Tom's flat, for close to half an hour before Tom breaks free of Edward's kisses and puts his hand on the car door. “I have to go,” he says, sounding as unenthusiastic about it as Edward feels. “I'm at work early in the morning.” 

“When can we get together again?” 

“Soon,” Tom promises. Edward knows he should be satisfied with that. Tom has a crazy schedule compared to Edward's. He needs to fit in when Tom has time for him.

“Come to the party,” he says, anyway. “Britannia's thing. If you're not working. Please.” 

“Really? You want me there?”

“Of course.” Edward wants him everywhere, all the time.

Tom hesitates. “As your...” 

“Partner.” Belatedly, the presumptuousness of that hits him. “I mean, if that's...if you think...if you don't mind...”

Tom kisses him for another five minutes. Edward takes that to mean he doesn't mind at all. 

***

Britannia Fitzjames is very skilled at many things, but she truly excels at throwing parties. 

The South Room at the Tate is bathed in a cool blue light that puts Edward in mind of the Canadian north, even though he's never been there. Inuit art, in the form of soapstone carvings and colourful, stylistic paintings of animals and fish decorate the room, surrounding a few dozen cocktail tables. A buffet of both British and Inuit foods is laid out against one wall—Edward doesn't want to know where she found caribou meat sliders in London—and bottles of fine wine are lined up beside them, ready to be opened. Britannia herself looks like a film star in a long black dress, her neck draped with diamonds. 

“How much did this cost?” John Irving asks, glancing around the room with wide eyes. Tom Hartnell is beside him, seeming anxious. Whether the anxiety is due to John's proximity, or due to the fact he's an accountant, it's hard to tell. 

“It's Britannia's responsibility,” Edward says, gleefully lobbing that buck. He mentioned the party to Francis last time he saw him. Surprisingly, Francis just said, “She knows what she's doing,” and left it at that. 

“I think it looks amazing,” Tom says. He looks even more amazing, in a navy blue suit with an ice-white shirt. Edward is physically restraining himself from leaning over and sucking a lovebite into the tantalizing skin above his starched collar. As well as being unprofessional, it would probably put John into cardiac arrest. His eyes widened when Edward casually introduced Tom as his partner, but he didn't run off screaming. He did, in fact, inch a little closer to Hartnell, which Edward takes as a positive sign. 

“There they are,” Hélène says. Edward looks over to see Harry Goodsir coming in with their guests of honour. 

The tribal spokesperson, Silna Whitebear, is beside him, smiling and laughing with the grinning Goodsir. _That's good_, Edward thinks. They look like they're friends, or at least not enemies. A few others are with her: an older man who resembles Silna so much he must be her father, two younger men, and a young woman. 

Britannia, of course, is on them in a flash. “Welcome to England." She beams. “We're so happy to have you with us.” 

“That painting is upside down.” Silna points at a blocky red and black painting of a bird. She moves past Britannia, Goodsir trailing behind her with awe in his eyes. 

That's when Edward knows this isn't going to work. The goal, according to Britannia, had been to show respect for the Inuit culture, to let them know that the Tuunbaq shopping centre project is going to be a boon rather than a detriment to their community, that Terrebus aren't just another group of greedy foreigners. If Edward is honest with himself, really and truly honest, that's just what they are. 

They're an hour in when Silna approaches Edward, as he's pouring himself a glass of Riesling. Goodsir is at her side, seemingly attached at her hip. “We appreciate your hospitality,” she says. “But we will never allow your use of our land.” 

“It's not right, Edward,” Goodsir puts in. “Their land is incredible. Unique. It needs to be protected, not built over.” 

Edward doesn't have a chance to answer. A familiar voice does it instead. “You're right,” Francis says. Then, “Hello, Tom. Sorry I didn't tell you I was coming.” Judging from the number of surprised faces pointed in their direction, he didn't tell anyone.

“Are you all right?” Concern creases Tom's forehead. “Do you need anything, Francis?” 

“You've been so good to me, Tom, but I can't rely on you forever. I have to come back to the real world. Hello, Silna.” He smiles at her like they're old friends. 

To Edward's surprise, she returns the smile, and the familiarity. “Francis.” 

“I took Silna to visit Francis yesterday,” Goodsir explains. “Sorry, Edward, I didn't mean to go over your head.” Edward is more interested in the fond look Francis is giving the woman than he is in any office politics surrounding it. 

“Silna is a very convincing speaker,” Francis says. “We're cancelling the Tuunbaq project. It's the right thing to do.” 

“Francis!” From across the room, Britannia's voice cuts through the din. She makes her way over, smiling more widely than Edward has ever seen her. “You look fantastic. How are you feeling?” 

Francis reaches up to kiss her cheek. “All the better for seeing you, Brit.” Pleased surprise crosses Britannia's face. Edward can't imagine anyone else calling her that, in any circumstance. “How's everything in Beijing?” 

It may be cowardly, but Edward walks away before Francis can tell her about his decision to cancel Tuunbaq. 

Now that this is just a party, without any ulterior motives, Edward lets himself enjoy it as such. He drinks good wine, eats caribou sliders, dances with Tom, and nudges him meaningfully when he sees John and Hartnell tentatively doing the same, a more than decorous amount of space between their bodies but their eyes staring at each other as if they are alone in the room. 

“Good for them,” Tom murmurs into Edward's ear, then plants a quick kiss to Edward's earlobe. It's restrained, polite, but it floods Edward with warmth. 

“I love you,” Edward says. He doesn't realize the importance of the words until after he's said them, but Tom smiles.

“I love you, too,” he replies, easily. Like he's said it every day for years. 

The party is winding down when Edward's mobile buzzes. Tom is checking on Francis, who seems to be doing perfectly well, sitting off to one side with a glass of water and Britannia by his side. She doesn't even look like she's on the verge of murdering him. So Edward opens the new email, even though it's from an address he doesn't recognize. _I'm burning this motherfucker to the ground._ He marks it as spam and returns his phone to his pocket.

The next morning, all of Terrebus' contract details, financial records, private documents and internal emails are leaked online. 

“How the fuck did this Cora Hickey get a hold of all that?” Britannia looks as stunned as Edward feels, and a lot more hungover. There's no definitive proof Hickey is behind the leak, but there's no one else it could be. Edward tried to bring in Billie Gibson, to question her about it, only to learn she'd texted her resignation to her supervisor the night before. “I don't even know who she is.”

“A thorn in our side,” Francis says, almost cheerfully. “But maybe a blessing in disguise.”

Britannia frowns. “Look, I know you're just back from rehab, and that's great, but this is fucking serious. There's a lot of stuff in there we don't necessarily want made public.” 

“No one's going to read all of our emails, are they?” John is chewing on the end of a pen like it's the only sustenance he's had in weeks. “I mean, most of them aren't going to be of any interest to anyone. Like stuff I wrote about my, um, watercolours class. Right?” 

“It's fine.” Francis sounds serene. It's so unlike the Francis he once knew, Edward wonders if New Passages actually replaced his brain, rather than just curing his alcoholism. “I've had a lot of time to think lately, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that sometimes, we have to see crisis as a catalyst to walk away from what we know. To forge an entirely new path.” He looks at the team, his gaze passing from one to the next, steady and sure. “I propose we start over. Rebuild from the ground up.” 

“We may not have much of a choice now, anyway," Britannia says. "I can get on to some of our contacts in Asia...”

“And,” Francis adds, “I want Terrebus to become a charity dedicated to educating people about indigenous land rights around the world.” 

Edward had never before truly understood the expression “you could hear a pin drop.” In that room, a hair floating to the carpet would have sounded like the eruption of Krakatoa.

“For God's sake, Francis, we're business people. Not..” Britannia hesitates. “Gandhi.”

“I can't lie to you,” Francis says. “To any of you. It's not going to be easy, but we have the skills to make it work.” Edward's not so sure they do. Donating old clothes to Oxfam is the closest he's ever come to doing anything for any sort of charity. “It will be a journey, for all of us, and I wouldn't want to take that journey with anybody else.” He sounds so confident, so sure, Edward finds himself perhaps, slightly, maybe starting to believe in him. 

He's not the only one. “I'm with you, Francis,” Hélène tells him, right away. “Wherever you want to take us. I'm ready for a change.” 

“Me, too,” Edward adds. _Why not?_ It wasn't like he loved his old job anyway. Once he's said it, John nods along, too. 

“Brit?” Francis smiles at her. “I need you. Partner.”

She sighs. “This is going to be the death of me,” she says, but then, “All right. I'm onboard.” 

“Great.” Francis looks between them. “Then let's set sail.”


	4. Chapter 4

The baby has Francis' nose and Britannia's perfectly styled dark hair. 

“She's beautiful,” Edward tells them, because it seems like the thing to say. She is. Edward's never seen a more fashionable baby. 

“Have I told you the story of how she was born?” Britannia asks. 

“I think you might have mentioned it once or twice.”

“I was in labour for twenty-eight hours. And there was a shortage of anaesthetists, so I couldn't get an epidural until I was sixteen hours in. Of course, by that time, I was already seven centimetres dilated...” 

Edward smiles grimly. It's been a while since he's seen the London team face-to-face. Most of his work can be done remotely from his home in Greenhithe.

Nobody's changed much. Jen Fairholme is back on English soil, for now, although she's heading out to New Zealand soon. Hélène Le Vesconte has stopped dyeing her hair, and is now a stylish grey. Harry Goodsir, who sent a little outfit in the iconic Hudson Bay stripes for the baby, has recently become a Canadian Permanent Resident. No one seems sure if there's anything other than friendship between him and Silna Whitebear. The two of them are keeping quiet. 

John seems more relaxed. It's been a year since he came out to his family, right after Hickey leaked everything, including his emails to Tom Hartnell. The first few months were very rough, Edward knows, and he doesn't think they have much of a relationship even now, but he's found a new church, he says, and John and Hartnell recently got engaged. It seems like he's doing all right. 

Their engagement, and Francis' and Britannia's baby, has made Edward think about his own future. He and Tom have been living together for nearly a year, along with Jacko the cat, in a beautiful house on Frobisher Way. Marriage is the next logical step, but he doesn't feel like there's any rush. 

Tom certainly seems happy with the way things are. As well as working at New Passages, he has a part-time job, a week every term, teaching rehabilitation nursing to students at the University of West London. The position is funded through a grant offered to the school by Francis, as a gift of thanks to Tom. “I had to show my appreciation somehow,” Francis explained. “He can't take a present, so why not a new job?” 

Tom loves it. 

“I'm helping people learn how to help others,” he said, after his first lecture. “What could be better than that?” 

“For you, nothing,” Edward agreed, and it's just one more reason why Edward loves him.

“And the doctor said it was the worst perineal tear he'd ever seen,” Britannia finishes. “They even photographed it for teaching purposes. But she's worth it.” She gazes lovingly down at the baby in Francis' arms. Edward's not sure what's going on there. He hasn't asked. He does know Britannia moved back from Beijing shortly after Terrebus changed from a property developer to a charity, and her sniper husband—ex-husband?—hasn't been mentioned since. “Do you want kids, Edward?”

Edward blinks. “I...maybe. I'm not too sure.” Tom would, he knows that. Tom's mother certainly would. She hints at it every time they visit her. Even Tozer once said, “Tom would make a great dad, don't you think?” pointedly, at an initially uncomfortable, but ultimately touching, hospital room birthday party for his comatose partner. He would. Tom loves kids, and is eager to meet Francis' baby. He's only not here now because he's on nights, and because Francis and Britannia promised to bring her to New Passages later.

“Life has a way of surprising us,” Francis says. The baby squirms in her sleep, raising a little fist to her face. “Sometimes, you've just got to trust yourself to take the right path. Your Tom taught me that,” he adds. _My Tom_, Edward thinks. He really likes the sound of that. 

He likes it even better when he arrives home and finds Tom in bed, blackout curtains drawn tightly shut, cat at his feet. Edward shouldn't disturb him, but he can't help it. He pulls off his clothes, shoos the cat, and slides in behind Tom.

“Edward,” Tom murmurs.

“Shh.” Edward slides his arm around Tom's waist. He rests a hand atop Edward's, leans back against his chest, and sleeps. 

Edward never pictured what true happiness could look like. Now, he knows. It's exactly this, and he's damned sure he's never going to let it go.


End file.
